


L'araignée et le fantôme

by WardenAsteria



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, im making this up as i go so rating and tags will be updated as i go, reaper is v confused about his feelings, v self indulgent, widow is equally confused BY him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-07-22 02:32:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7416142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WardenAsteria/pseuds/WardenAsteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fic request from a friend who mains Reaper lol</p>
<p>Takes place immediately after the first cinematic trailer. Widowmaker and Reaper escape back to a Talon safehouse after their failed Doom Fist retrieval mission to lick their wounds and hate Overwatch even more than they already do.<br/>Reaper starts feeling... feelings... Widowmaker looks at him like he's crazy</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Merde

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first real fic so feel free to give me constructive criticism and point out errors

“Merde!”

Reaper barely hears the swear over the mechanical whirring of the Spider’s grappling hook. At any other moment in time, he would have cocked an eyebrow and turned to look at his French partner, but right now, he’s too focused on finding the next opportune time to shadow-step them away from their problems.  _ Stupid monkey, stupid girl, _ he thinks to himself, wincing at the fact that he and Widowmaker have been forced to retreat in such an embarrassing manner.  _ This was supposed to be an easy mission, and those two ingrates had to ruin it all!  _ Reaper lets out a sharp growl that causes Widowmaker to shudder slightly. She’s still caught off guard by her deathly partner sometimes, and she instinctively squeezes him tighter in fear that she might drop him due to the sudden surprise. This gesture is not lost on Reaper. As he feels her hold on him falter in that split second, he too grasps onto the Spider’s side even tighter, his claws digging into her blue flesh and breaking skin. Widowmaker lets out a hiss of pain and gives him a quick glare before grappling the next building; she will certainly demand an apology later. 

Reaper looks back and sees that the monkey is still tailing the them, bounding from one rooftop to the next, trying to catch up. Tracer is trying to catch up as well, blinking as far as her little chrono-accelerator can taker her, but she is too far behind. Neither of them could compete with the Spider’s swift skill with her hook, and both Talon agents knew this. 

“Spider, get lower. I need to get us out of sight,” Reaper half-asks, half-demands. With a huff, Widowmaker releases her hook, and the two go into a free fall. Reaper’s eyes work double time as they scan for a dark alley to seek refuge. He spots something that will suffice and with a simple “now,” he begins the shadow-step. Once again, Widow is caught off guard. With a sharp intake of breath, she feels her body disassemble and reassemble within a matter of seconds. 

Cold. She is incredibly cold. She didn’t know she could feel the sensation of cold. Her entire body feels as if it is floating. A painful static tingling sensation travels all throughout her body, making her shake and grasp at herself in a desperate need to confirm that she is still there. In the quick span of a few seconds, Widowmaker’s mind races. Nothing has ever affected her like this before; she has never  _ been  _ through something like this before. She frantically tries to comprehend what she just experienced, and in her comprehension, she forgets to breath. Widowmaker gasps for air, sputters even, and every breath is labored, like she can’t get in enough air with each inhale. She vaguely feels a clawed hand pull her deeper into the dark alleyway. Her chest hurts, no, it burns. She’s hyperventilating, her mind is still swimming. Next things she knows, she is sitting against a wall in the dim light, her head tilted upwards, still struggling for air.

“Is this… What death feels like… What was… I- I…” Widowmaker spews out between breaths, but a hand gently covers her mouth. Surprisingly gentle. Reaper leans in close, too close, and turns his head to the direction they came in from.

“Quiet,” he whispers, “you’re fine. You will  _ be _ fine. But not if they find us again.” He turns his head back to Widow. A part of Reaper does genuinely feel sorry for the woman, for he had never shadow-stepped with someone else before, but this was not the time to get sappy. Widowmaker stares into the eyes of Reaper’s mask, takes a few more shallow breaths before inhaling and exhaling deeply, and swallows hard. Her body still feels like it could fall apart at any moment, but she shakily stands up, gripping Reaper’s forearm so she does not fall, and puts on her helmet. Through her infra-sight she sees the big monkey, and that  _ annoying _ girl, searching for them. They are at least a thousand feet away, but searching in the wrong direction. Widowmaker smirks.

“I can see them but they cannot find us,”  she drawls, her accent heavier than it was before, excited by the prospect of a hunt, “such fools. They are going the wrong way.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Reaper growls. He walks further into the alley way, and Widowmaker is quick to follow. She seems to have recovered, her body only feels a slight tingle when she moves too quickly.

“Where are you going, fant ôme ?” Her voice yielding equal parts curiosity and exasperation. Reaper stops and looks at her over his shoulder.

“You’re not much good if you don’t have your rifle,’ he replies without thinking.  He knows he shouldn’t, but something is telling him to go back and retrieve her weapon. Maybe it is the way she reacted to the shadow-step… Who knows, it certainly wasn’t he. Widowmaker simply scoffs.

“Do not be un idiot, fant ôme. You know I have more just like it back at base. While it is… Unfortunate that I let myself be unarmed, it is not something we can afford to go back for.” She crosses her arms in an authoritative manner; the Spider is right and she knows it. Reaper mentally kicks himself for being so embarrassing, sighs, and fully turns to Widowmaker. He doesn’t know why, but he wants to apologize. He wants to say that the mission failed because of him, that he will take the brunt of the blame back at Talon HQ, but he can’t bring himself to get the words out. Instead he stares at Widowmaker, calculating their next move, while also studying her face. He notices the all the grazes left on her cheeks and chin from bullets getting too close for comfort, the slight burn from when that stupid kid punched her with the Doom Fist, the wound  _ he _ left in her side, the confused yet ever so annoyed look in her eyes...

The next thing Reaper knows, she’s gone from his sight. With a roll of her eyes and a quick huff, Widowmaker walks deeper into the alley way. She looks back at his gaunt form and smirks to herself.

“Hurry up, fant ôme! Our safehouse is only half a mile away and those imbeciles are still too close by for my liking. I  _ will _ leave you, you know.” Her tone is almost sing-song, but she can’t help but feel rattled by the way he was looking at her. Without hesitation, she picks up her pace. Reaper shakes himself out of his stupor, angry and confused at himself. Why did he do that? What even WAS that? 

  
_ Whatever it was it doesn’t matter now _ , he decides as he follows his French companion into the shadows,  _ but Dios I must have looked like a moron. _


	2. Enticing

The fifteen minute journey back to the Talon safehouse is mostly spent in silence. Reaper walks with his arms crossed, his claws digging into his biceps as he recounts the day’s events once again. Ever so often, he lets out small growls as he winces at his failures. The Spider gives no indication that she notices his miniature tantrum, as she is too focused on her Talon provided GPS. 

In all reality, Widowmaker isn’t focused at all. She too thinks over the day’s incidents, mulling over the way Reaper’s demeanor changed so quickly after they shadow-stepped. Did he feel… bad... over it all? Did he think he really hurt her and felt sorry? Does he still feel that way? Widowmaker furrows her brow and bites her thumb.  _ It was certainly not the most enjoyable experience,  _ she admits in her mind,  _ but something about it… Mon dieu, did a part of me like it?? Why do I feel that I want to try it again?? _ She lets out a sharp hiss, barely audible to anyone else, but Reaper catches the tail end of the swearless curse. He gives no indication that he notices her miniature tantrum.

 

When the duo reach the safehouse, Widowmaker enters without hesitation. She straightens her back and lifts her chin to give an air of superiority; no low ranking agent will question her authority today. Reaper, however, stops and sighs at the entrance for a moment. He knows exactly what is going to happen next. He and the Spider will be reprimanded and punished for their failure, they will both be sent to Reconditioning, and they will be sent out into the field again. But what really pisses him off is the fact that he has to keep his mouth shut as those ‘higher ranking’ pinche pendejos tell him how to do his job. At least he knows that Talon would be nothing without them. Reaper enters the safehouse nonetheless, and nods at Widowmaker to start the call to HQ.

After much expected beration and underhanded comments, the briefing is over with. Everything Reaper predicted to happen, happens, except the ‘higher ups’ at HQ throw in a less than loving surprise. Apparently, extracting the two agents would prove too dangerous for Talon at the moment, what with all the Overwatch presence, the authorities looking for them, etc. He and the Spider must wait an entire week before Talon can retrieve them and bring them back to HQ.  _ A load of horse shit,  _ Reaper thinks to himself.  _ This is merely another punishment, and they know it.  _ Widowmaker flicks her gaze to him in silent agreement, as if she’s read his mind, but does nothing more than reply with a simple “oui, madame” to end the call. 

Without skipping a beat, Widowmaker is off to the medbay, if one can call it that. Having the adrenaline of the fight and the distraction of Reaper’s strange actions gone, her body aches and calls to attention just how hurt she really is. Every scrape and burn stings, but nothing hurts more than the wound Reaper left in her side. The cuts aren’t deep, breaking skin but not gushing blood, but they throb with a dull ache that causes Widowmaker to hitch her breath and it throws her off her balance.  _ Everything about him lingers, doesn’t it,  _ she laughs to herself. It only makes her side hurt more. She doesn’t even notice the Talon agents ducking out of her way as she half-limps half-drags herself down the hallway, nor the manifestation of the Grim Reaper himself come up from behind her. With nothing but a grunt, Reaper picks Widowmaker up bridal style and keeps walking towards the medbay. Widowmaker lets out a loud yelp in surprise, followed by a hiss of pain as the sudden movement and contraction of her core muscles sends searing pain throughout her body. 

“What on  _ earth _ do you think you’re doing, Fantôme!?” She asks through gritted teeth, her hands trying to peel herself from the man’s grasp. Reaper doesn’t look down at her, he simply keeps walking towards the nearing medbay door, his grip tightening only by a little.

“Helping.” He states matter-of-factly. Widowmaker’s cheeks flush, turning a slightly darker shade of blue.  _ How dramatic, _ she scoffs as she rolls her eyes, knowing that it is futile to try to escape his grasp now. Reaper lets her down right outside the door to medbay, and stands there as she enters, waiting. The cute French nurse informs Widowmaker that none of her injuries are neither serious nor will they leave huge scarring. She closes the wounds to Widowmaker’s side and applies ointment to it and her other scrapes, as well as applying a separate ointment to all of her burns. She already feels the magic of modern medicine closing and soothing her wounds, and lets out a small sigh. Widowmaker thanks the girl and even gossips about Reaper in French with her for a moment. Reaper is flabbergasted when he hears the Spider giggle. It is light, sweet, and unbelievably genuine.  _ How could something so deadly, so supposedly emotionless, be so… cute?? Wait… Did I really just think that!? What is WRONG with me!? _ Reaper shakes his head vigorously to forget that he even thought something so… disgusting... Thankfully, by the time Widowmaker exits the medbay, he’s regained most of his composure. 

“What was that all about?” He asks, his voice purposefully growlier than usual. Widowmaker shrugs and brushes past him, clearly displaying that she can walk on her own thank you very much.

“What was  _ what _ all about, Fantôme? You were not  _ spying  _ on us were you?” Her tone walks the line of being both annoyed and playful. Reaper is already following behind her, desperately trying to think of a witty comeback.

“Nevermind,” he growls, crossing his arms as he walks. Widowmaker lets out a small chuckle once more, and Reaper’s chest tightens.  _ What in God’s name was this woman doing to him? _

  
  


The two do not talk as they walk towards Widowmaker’s room. An air of awkwardness hangs over them, both unsure of what to say, if anything.  _ An entire week of doing nothing… With him…  _ Widowmaker contemplates, unsure if she likes the idea of it or not.  _ An entire week of doing absolute shit _ …  _ With her…  _ Reaper cannot help but feel slightly excited by the idea. As soon as he recognizes this excitement, he shuts it down. He can’t, no, he  _ won’t _ , feel these emotions. He lets out a soft “keh” in disgust, but gives no explanation when the Spider gives  him a questioning look.

The only thing that distinguishes Widowmaker’s room as hers is the decorative satin blanket that lies at the foot of her bed. It is a rich purple with a faint silver spiderweb design. She has had it for as long as she can remember, and cuddles with it when missions get too rough, though she would never admit that out loud. On the opposite side there is a small design in the corner written in gold that reads, “Gerard & Amélie Lacroix.” She doesn’t know why, but Widowmaker likes the little signature; she finds it charming. Other than the blanket, the room is standard issue Talon safehouse quarters. When the duo enter, Widomaker immediately sits on the bed and starts taking off her shoes. She does not look at Reaper as she performs this daily ritual, and she doesn’t notice the way he’s standing awkwardly just inside the doorway. She  _ does _ notice the way he’s staring at her bowed head, covered eyes boring into her brow. Reaper loses any shred of wit he had left in him.  _ Why am I even here?? _ He shuffles on his feet, unable to strike up the conversation he thought he wanted to have. Only when Widowmaker finishes taking off her shoes and putting on clean socks does she stand, walk over, and look at him.  

“You have been following me everywhere like a little duckling, Fantôme, what is on your mind?” Her face is neutral, but her tone is riddled with genuine curiosity. She stands four inches shorter than Reaper without her heels on, and he tries to stop himself from instinctively looming over her. Reaper’s mind is broken. He keeps his arms crossed, unable to find himself capable of doing anything productive with them. His mask feels hot.  _ Seriously, what is WRONG with me? _ The question echoes in his mind, too loud and too pressing. Widowmaker stares at him expectantly, if not annoyed. 

“Uh…” He lets out, immediately regretting ever saying anything and every life decision he’s ever made. To his relief, Widowmaker simply turns towards the bed and sits on it once more. To his dismay, she also drapes one long elegant leg over the other and leans back on her right arm, resting her left on her knee. The pose is so enticing, too enticing, and if it isn’t intentional, it’s one hell of an accident. 

“Fine, since you won’t say anything, I will.” She glares at Reaper through his mask, but there is a smile in her eyes. “I have been thinking, Fantôme. About today and about our escape… I was wondering…” Reaper picks up on her newfound hesitation; he studies it. Widowmaker rubs her knee in circles as she speaks: method to divert her focus. Her lips taught in a thin line: she’s reconsidering. 

“Well?” Reaper practically snaps, drawing a glare from the Spider. She closes her eyes and exhales sharply. She makes sure to look him in the eyes of his mask as she prepares herself for what she is about to ask of him. 

“I was wondering if… if you could show me that thing you call a shadow-step again.” 

 

  
For what seems like the billionth time today, Reaper is stunned speechless by Widowmaker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not my fav chapter but oh well here it is lmao
> 
> Shoutout to MapleRaven for giving me the "Widow wants to shadow step again" idea you rock <3


	3. Breaking Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violence is not the answer

Reaper’s brain short circuits. She wants to Shadow-step. Again. After what happened today? Is she stupid? 

“No.” He hardens his posture, he’s firm in his rejection, or so he believes. Widowmaker stands indignant, her face scrunches from anger and embarrassment. Reaper rolls his eyes behind his mask,  _ now she’s being childish.  _ She glares daggers at him.

“And why not?” She asks, folding her arms to match Reaper. She takes a few steps forward, trying to see if he will shrug away from her ferocity. He does not. Reaper simply sighs, now annoyed.

“You nearly died today after I did it. I’m not an idiot. I’m not going to repeat that again.” He grits his teeth as Widowmaker steps closer to him once more, staring fire into his shrouded eyes. He never noticed just how gold they are.

“Maybe nearly dying is why I want to try it again…” She mumbles as she takes another agonizing step forward, they are a hand’s distance apart. Reaper cocks his head slightly at the comment but says nothing, too distracted by his quickening heartbeat. “I am not an idiot either. I know what I want… Please, Fantôme.” With a look of desperation and a hand to the cheek of his mask, Reaper’s resolve is decimated by the Spider. Silently, he moves his left hand to his cheek to meet her right one and takes it in his own. Widowmaker flinches, surprised by Reaper’s sudden affectionate nature. He takes the Spider’s waist in his right arm, drawing her so close that her chest touches his. She yelps in surprised protest; none of this was expected. She thought she was going to at least get a playful argument first. With a small growl, Reaper shadow-steps the two of them backwards. It is only a few feet, and the duo reappear right at the edge of the bed.

 

Cold is the first thing Widowmaker registers. Breathlessness is the second. A lack of a grumpy, angry, and growly Fantôme is the third. Her back hitting her bed is the fourth. Widowmaker takes in how freezing her body is, how hard it is to breath, how much her chest burns. She revels in it. Who knew feeling like she was going to die would make her feel so… alive. She starts to laugh but chokes on the noise, sending her into a fit of coughs and sputtering breaths. She grabs at her chest, tears welling up in her eyes.  _ Why do I feel so sad, but so relieved? Why do I love this sensation so much? Have I lost my mind… _ A part of her tells her that these thoughts aren’t only directed towards the agony in her chest; she shakes them away. When she recovers from the side effects of the shadow-step, Widowmaker takes off her helmet and wraps herself in the satin comfort blanket. She falls asleep to the feeling of Reaper’s arm around her waist, the purple-ish black smoke that surrounds him before he shadow-steps. His growls echo throughout her brain.  _ Everything about him lingers.  _

“Thank you, Fantôme.” She mumbles to the nothingness before sleep takes her.

 

Reaper had left Widowmaker in her room, pushed onto her bed after he caved and shadow-stepped them both. He left immediately, partly to make sure she couldn’t get another word out to him, but mostly because his heart is running wild. She can’t play with his emotions if he can’t see her, or so he thinks. Reaper rounds a corner and pounds the wall with the side of his fist. He lets out a long and heavy sigh, which sounds more like a growl.  _ ‘Please, Fantôme.’ _ Her voice racks his brain relentlessly, cruel yet bewitching. No one has ever rattled him this badly before, not even Jack Morrison. Reaper kicks himself for bringing up such sour memories, but he knows it’s true. What the Spider had done in a day, took the Strike Commander a good few months. He needs to hurt something. **Now** . 

Reaper stalks down to the very small training facility, grumbling every step of the way. There’s only one training dummy in the room, which automatically makes it the unfortunate victim of Reaper’s fury. He doesn’t use guns or calculated punches, but his claws. Every relentless, rage-filled strike is prompted by an echo of her. He thinks of how he accidentally dug into her side, hurting her; his first swipe rips an arm off the dummy, stuffing flies everywhere. He remembers how her chest heaved in agony in the alley, begging for breath, sweat glistening down her sternum and into the dip of her abdomen-- the dummy’s head is gone, stomped on more than necessary, “brains” spilling out like a squashed tomato. _‘Please, Fantôme... Please, Fantôme… Please-’_ Reaper snaps. He lunges at the dummy’s torso, lashing out with an unchecked animalistic fury. Every clawing blow rips apart the dummy until there is nothing but fluff and tattered pieces of canvas strewn about the room. He’s panting, heavily, and on his knees. Reaper lets out an angry roar, not caring if the whole city can hear him, and claws at the remains of the dummy one more time for good measure. 

“Mierda…” He growls so quietly almost he can’t even hear himself. He stands shakily and exhausted, and buries his face in his hands. Inhale, exhale, inhale… exhale… He slowly and methodically walks to the door. It opens, and he is met with empty, gaunt silence. Reaper wraiths to his room just in case. 

He doesn’t  _ need _ sleep per say, but it always helps when he hasn’t had a soul in a long while. Reaper lays down in his bed, not bothering to remove any article of clothing. He lies there for what feels like an eternity, his mind refusing to shut the fuck up. Every bit of physical contact, conversation, and awkward silence from the day replays in his mind. Sometimes it’s all too fast, other times it’s way too slow, but every time, it’s all too agonizing. Eventually, he lulls into a half-conscious state of mind, on the brink of sleep’s sweet release but not quite there yet. Right before he loses himself to his dreams, Reaper hears her voice echo in his mind, 

‘ _ Please, Fantôme... ‘  _

  
He’s wide awake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was kinda short because the next one is gonna be super long lol
> 
> Sleepy Reapy is a useless bisexual who can't deny his feelings no' mo' just give in my dude B)  
> And don't worry, Widow will struggle too >:3c


	4. Days of the Week P1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~TRIGGER WARNING FOR SELF-LOATHING AND SELF-HARM~
> 
>  
> 
> I'm sorry this took so long, and you guys were gonna have to wait longer, but I felt I should cut this chapter in half so I could give you guys SOMETHING  
> Good news is I know what I'm going to write for part 2 so it should be out faster

Reaper doesn’t see her on Saturday. It’s probably for the best since he slept like shit the previous night and hasn’t had a proper meal for days. His mood is definitely less than friendly.

Reaper stalks the halls of the safehouse, desperately trying to find something to distract himself with. He fails, miserably. He skulks back to his own room and lays on his bed; maybe a nap will help. Reaper tosses and turns until he gets so angry at his inability to take a  _ goddamn nap _ that he nearly claws the bed in half. Nap: no go. Shower: perhaps? 

Reaper reluctantly storms over to the small, but adequate, bathroom on the opposite side of the room. Slowly and meticulously, he peels off every layer of clothing and armor. He winces every time more and more of his skin is exposed. He studies his naked body in the mirror. His skin is pale, white almost, and nearly translucent, devoid of any sign of his past self. He’s covered in haggard scars and pockmarks of old bullet wounds. He misses his old skin, brown as the dirt his abuelos farmed, a reminder that his family worked hard to provide for him. He smiles as he remembers helping his abuela milk the cows and feed the chickens, how she would praise him after a job well done. For a moment his pride swells, but it quickly fades as he catches himself in the mirror again. _Ugly_. He misses his old chest, dusted with dark hair, ‘ _a sign of becoming a man, mijo!_ ’ his mother’s voice drifts into his mind. _It’s nothing more than a pale scarred span of skin, gross_. Hell, he misses his family, he misses them _so much._ He misses his mother’s tamales and his abuela’s menudo. He misses his mariachi band. He misses Los Angeles. He misses the bi-annual trips to Mexico. He misses his days before overwatch, when he was Gabriel Reyes. Not when he was Commander Reyes-- just Gabriel. When he was someone’s son, lover, friend, not this… _thing._

Reaper punches the mirror with a resounding crack. The sound of the glass falling is music to his ears.  _ Won’t have to see this ugly mug again anytime soon. _ His hands ghost up to his mask, and he hesitates. He knows what’s underneath, the  _ monster  _ he’s become. Reaper’s breaths become labored, and he shakes and grips his mask so tight his pale knuckles go stark white.  _ She would never love a face like this. This disgusting face. I’m a monster. Monster! MONSTER! _ A sudden wave of nausea slams into Reaper like a tsunami. He braces himself against the bathroom wall, one hand still gripping the chin of his mask. He gags but nothing but black smoke escapes his lungs. If he could sweat, he would be drenched. The mask can stay on for now.

The temperature of the shower is turned all the way to its hottest, but the water still burns. The moment Reaper steps into the water, he is met with the pain he has gotten so used to, but amplified a thousand times. He feels as if his flesh is trying to melt off; black smoke sizzles off of his body and fogs his vision. The agony of every drop of water causes him to crumble to the ground… But he doesn’t leave. In fact, he expected this. He wants this. He  _ deserves  _ this. A horrifying freak of nature, a monstrosity, like him deserves to be in constant pain, doesn’t he?

  
  


Widowmaker doesn’t see Reaper on Saturday. She hardly sees much of anything at all. When she wakes up, it is already 3pm, and she’s not even bothered by it. Sluggishly, she gets up and out of bed, untangling herself from the silk blanket, and heads for the shower. She peels herself from her bodysuit with ease, her wounds practically healed, and lets her hair fall free. She combs her fingers through the long dark tresses, lazily detangling her hair before plaiting it even lazier. She stares at her reflection intensely, gazing into the gold of her eyes.  _ Exquis.  _ She sighs heavily and turns the shower all the way to its hottest. It’s not hot enough.  _ Quelle déception…  _ She mutters in her head. How foolish of her to think she could feel something as mundane as the temperature of shower water. No, she can only feel the extraordinary, the overwhelming, the fatal.  _ Why is he so special that he makes me feel… _ Her head hits the shower wall with a dull thud. Widowmaker feels the dull pain in her side emerge once more, but the wounds there are gone. Her chest tightens as she envisions purple smoke lapping at her ankles, calling her back to the void that is his embrace. She expected him to feel cold when he brought her in to shadow step, but he felt hot, too hot, like he was burning alive at all hours of the day. The water of the shower feels the slightest bit warmer.

“Oh my dear Fantôme,” Widowmaker whispers to wall, “what  _ are _ you.”

 

\--

 

On Sunday, the pair barely speak. Reaper bumps into the Spider in the hall, too preoccupied with self-loathing to watch his step, and ushers a quick apology before rushing to his room.

“Fantôme!” Widowmaker grabs for his wrist, and finds purchase. The contact sends the burning sensation up her arm, she tingles at the touch. “Fantôme, I-” Reaper rips his wrist from her grasp as if she has shocked him and bolts for the door to his room. Widowmaker stands in the hall dumbfounded. When she gets her bearings once more, she lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and heads for the training room. 

“Ce qui la baise!?” She gasps in surprise as her eyes fall on the decimated training dummy. “Fantôme, what did you  _ do _ !?”  _ And why…  _ She continues in her mind.  _ What hurt you so to make you do this… _

 

Reaper reels at her touch. He’s got it bad and he knows it; he can’t deny it anymore.  _ Maybe if I never talk to her again this feeling will go away.  _ He chides himself for thinking something so childish. It won’t work, it never does. 

He’s on his bed, his claws raking down his smooth chest and drawing blood. He needs the pain. He needs  _ something _ to take his mind off of her, and the growing heat in the crotch of his pants, so he bleeds. He cuts, he bleeds, his horror of a body heals his self-inflicted wounds, he cuts again. Every grunt in pain is a means to forget her curves, her breasts, the pout of her lips… He cuts, and he bleeds. Eventually, the method works and he doesn’t think about the Spider any longer, but it doesn’t help him feel any less empty.

 

\--

 

On Monday, Widowmaker forces Reaper to speak to her. She’s not worried… just mildly concerned. She exits the medbay from a short gossipping session with the French nurse only to catch him in the hall again. He pretends he doesn’t notice her and keeps walking. She jogs to catch up with him.

“Fantôme!” Widowmaker quips as she reaches for his wrist again. “A word,  s'il vous plaît.” Reaper stops and turns before she can lock onto his wrist, causing her to nearly run him over. She stops short of his chest with a gruff ‘huff!’ and rights herself. She folds her arms and cocks one hip, and she inhales sharply. She hadn’t actually prepared what she was going to say to him before hand. Golden eyes burn like fire into Reaper’s and he can’t help but become flustered by her accidental glare.

“W-well?” He coughs out, obviously uncomfortable by the whole situation. He too takes to the comforting stance of crossed arms, a desperate attempt to steel himself in the presence of the Spider. Suddenly, he feels like his body is unraveling itself, but this is different from the agony he usually feels. His whole body tingles, his face feels warmer, his mouth is dry.  _ Oh fuck me. Why this and why now, when she’s right HERE?!  _ Reaper frantically attempts to calm himself and bury his flustered composure.  Why do feelings have to be so… disgusting. Widowmaker lets out the breath she didn’t know she was holding. She rubs her collarbone, unsure of how to start the conversation. The action hits Reaper full on, a wave of attraction drowns him instantly. He stifles a gasp as best he can.

“Yesterday, after our short… encounter… I made my way to the training room and-” Widowmaker swallows, hard. She’s not afraid of him, not really, but making the Ghost angry is not an enjoyable experience either. “I found the dummy destroyed, massacred, and- I just- Are you alright, Fantôme?” She reaches for his arm but stops midway and lets her hand fall to her side. Reaper’s heart soars sky high, but he won’t bother the Spider with his childish feelings, especially because they’re over her. “I know we are not the closest of friends, but we  _ are _ partners. You can tell me if something weighs on you. What you did to that dummy-”

“I’m fine.” Reaper growls through gritted teeth. The words send a shiver down Widowmaker’s spine. Reaper spins on his heel and continues his trek to his room; he will not let his heart get the better of him. Not now. Not ever. 

“Fantôme!” Widowmaker takes a step after him. “Fantôme, wait!”

“I’m  _ fine. _ ” He hisses back over his shoulder. In act act of desperation, he wraiths. Widowmaker stands in the hallway, helplessly watching as Reaper escapes from her once again. She watches as black and purple smoke swirl around his form, silently crackling like fire if he moves too fast.  _ Vraiment exquis. _

“Please…” She whispers to the empty, frigid air.  _ Please, don’t hide from me, mon beau… _

 

For the first time in a long time, Widowmaker feels cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exquis; exquisite  
> Quelle deception; how disappointing  
> Vraiment exquis; truly exquisite  
> Mon beau; my beautiful
> 
> And if anyone is confused:  
> Widow is so cold and unfeeling the hot water didnt affect her  
> Reaper is so hot that things colder than him (the water temperature) burn ((if youve ever burned your hand or and put it under cold water/ice you know may what im talking about)). The reason his powers feel cold is because they're Death-stuff lol


	5. Days of the Week P2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School has started so updating will be harder for me but im not abandoning this dont worry B)
> 
> Also idk how to write fight scenes

On Tuesday, Widowmaker decides to be bold. She storms to Reaper’s room and nearly breaks down the door. She doesn’t care how many Talon grunts see, nor if they scurry off to gossip with each other. 

Reaper  _ was  _ trying to fall back asleep, a terrible nightmare had been plaguing him relentlessly. It was always the same; gold eyes burning with desire, a choking sensation, then falling into nothingness, before waking with a start. The sudden banging of Widowmaker’s fist on the door sends him bolting upright.  _ Not now…  _ Reaper growls quietly, but lets the Spider enter nonetheless. She graces into the room as if she didn’t just try to take down the whole city with her knocking. 

“Fantôme, come with me,” she practically barks at him, arms folded and lips pursed. Reaper tries to avoid looking at her form, but is instantly mesmerized.  _ She’s not wearing her usual get up.  _ Widowmaker shifts under his gaze, she can tells he’s studying her. No amount of time could allow for Reaper to fully take in the sight before him. Her hair is in a low braid, her skin tight suit is substituted by a lilac knit crop top and black workout leggings, and remarkably, she’s still wearing heels.  _ I’m fucked. _

“Why would I want to go anywhere with you?” He chokes out, his voice betraying his true feelings. Widowmaker sighs and shifts her weight to one side, feigning annoyance. Despite the pounding in her chest, she stands firm and stares Reaper down. 

“Because we both know that letting our muscles go soft will lead to a decline in our performance on missions. Now come, I want to train.” She holds out her hand, hopefully for him to take. Unfortunately, luck does not seem to be on the Spider’s side. Reaper’s eyes do not leave Widowmaker’s midsection as he stands; his gaze roams over the curve of her hips and dip of her navel as he leans down close to her face. 

“ _Fine._ ” He growls, a smirk hidden behind his mask. Widowmaker flushes a deep blue and shoves his masked face away with her hand. _That was way better than him taking my hand, mon Dieu!_ Reaper sputters a harmless threat; now it is his turn to blush.

 

“So what is this, Spider? Hand-to-hand?” Reaper stares at the lithe frame of his partner, patiently waiting against the wall. Widowmaker flicks the lights of the training room on, and hums in approval when she sees that the training dummy’s corpse has been cleared away. 

“Precisely. No rules, just no  _ real _ damage to each other, yes?” She motions to her side, the faintest scar lingers on her blue waist. Widowmaker saunters into the middle of the room, and slowly begins to take her crop top off. Reaper chokes on air.  _ What in the hell is she doing?! _ “Why are you so surprised, Fantôme? This is knit wool, it would become very uncomfortable as we sparred, or do you have a crush on me?” The words leave the Spider’s mouth before she can process that she said them. She spins on her heel to hide the flush that encompasses her whole body, and quickly rips the crop top off. She has to commit to the show now. For a moment, Reaper is speechless. The Spider, nearly topless in nothing but a sports bra, tight leggings, and  _ heels _ , just asked him the very words he didn’t want to be asked. He stutters, tries to collect himself, stutters again.

“A-and why would I ever have a crush on you? What? No way, Spider.” He manages to blurt out. His faces burns, well, more than usual. “Let’s just get this over with.”  _ He is lying,  _ Widowmaker smirks to herself,  _ que c’est mignon.  _ Without another word, the Spider strikes. She rushes up, feigns a right hook to grab Reaper’s left arm, and yanks down hard. Reaper, caught off guard by her swiftness, is like putty in her hands. He’s thrown off balance just the way she wants him to be, as she uses her free elbow to send him to the ground. Smirking, she steps back before he can swipe at her legs. 

“What is this? The Great Reaper is bested so easily?” She quips playfully. Her eyes burn with a sort of hunger that Reaper cannot place. He ghosts to his feet, and cracks neck. No mercy for the Spider today. He doesn’t make a sound when he charges her, which frightens Widowmaker for some reason.  _ Oh no, did I really upset him?  _ Is all she can think before she feels the impact of a fist to her stomach. She keels over in inescapable pain, the wind knocked out of her. He looms over her, satisfaction hidden by the owl-like mask.

“What is this? The ‘illustrious’ Widowmaker is bested so easily?”  He mocks, a hint of anger hidden in the words. Reaper cracks his knuckles as she kneels before him, utter silence. Then, without warning, there’s overwhelming pain as the Spider brings her fist up to connect with his dick. Reaper collapses on instinct, perfect. As he doubles over, Widowmaker stands and brings both of her hands to the back of his head. With a resounding crack, Reaper’s face meets Widowmaker’s knee plate. She doesn’t skip a beat as she cups the side of his cheek, smirks with a soft hum, and slams his head against the wall.

“I do not like to lose, Fantôme, but it seems that you  _ do. _ ” Every hint of playfulness is gone from Widowmaker’s tone, only the desire to win remains. She does not move away from him, but stands at the ready for his next attack. However, she doesn’t expect him to tackle her to the ground. Before she knows what hit her, she’s on her back and fighting for her freedom. With eyes seeing stars, she wriggles and flails to get away from the Ghost’s grasp. He growls into her ear, low and rough, and it sends electricity up her spine. Reaper sees the Spider’s hesitation and pounces on it. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing anymore, the drive to be victorious taking over all thoughts and actions. He pins her arms above her head with both hands, both knees forced between her legs, he has her.

The two stay there for a moment, panting hard and sharing breath. Widowmaker struggles to find a way to get free, and Reaper struggles to conceal his growing erection. He leans in close despite his newfound boner, and whispers soft and slow,

“I win.” Widowmaker decides to be risky, and before he can withdraw his face, she places a kiss on the nose of his mask and snuggles her hips as close as she can into his knees. Reaper is sent reeling. He recoils in surprise, his hold on the Spider faltering, as he chokes on the breath he didn’t know he was holding. His crotch only grows hotter. Widowmaker chuckles before springing into action,  _ so predictable.  _ With lightening fast speed, she rolls onto her knees pushing Reaper off her and onto his ass. Before he can get his bearings about him, she is on his stomach. She pins both of his arms above his head with her left forearm, and closes her fingers around his throat. Her eyes burn with determination and her lips quirk into a smile laced with smugness. She leans down to whisper back to him,

“Non, ma chere. I--” In a swirl of purple smoke, Widowmaker finds herself alone. Reaper appears just on the other side of the door, panicked and horny. She can hear his heavy breathing, and his hurried footsteps. He needs to get away from her. NOW.  Widowmaker rocks herself back onto her knees as the footfalls disappear and stares at the door dumfounded.

 

“I win…”

 

\--

 

On Wednesday, Widowmaker feels guilty.  _ I should not have toyed with him like that. He is clearly upset... I should apologize.  _ She stops outside of Reaper’s room and glares at the door. What would she say? What  _ could _ she say? Sorry for using your crush on me as leverage in a training fight? Widowmaker huffs in frustration at herself.  _ Je suis terrible…  _ At least she dressed for modesty today; no need to add fuel to the fire. She eyes her oversized black sweatshirt and purple leggings, clicking her tongue in annoyance at her metallic heels.  _ As modest as I can be. _ She raps her knuckles on the metallic grey door, no response. She does it again, no response. A third time-- the door flings wide open. Widowmaker jumps and lets out a surprised yelp as she is faced by a rather imposing Reaper. 

“What. Do.  _ You.  _ Want.” He growls out, his free hand bunched into a fist by his side. Widowmaker winces at how he hisses out ‘you,’ and she can feel the anger coming off of him in waves. She holds her left arm with her right, and her eyes never leave the floor. 

“I… I want to apologize… About yesterday… May I come in?” Reaper says nothing as he sidesteps out of the way and gestures Widowmaker to enter. She nods her head slightly in thanks and bites her bottom lip anxiously. Reaper simply leans against the door, patiently waiting for the Spider to begin her supposed apology. 

“I… Was not kind to you yesterday. I was not fair. I know that our line of work does not require us to fight fair or honourably, but you are my partner. Mon fantôme-” 

“Don’t call me that if you don’t mean it, _Spider.”_ Widowmaker shrinks as the scathing interjection falls on her ears. _He really is hurt, mon Dieu,_ she thinks as she turns to face the Ghost. She can see the tension in his body. The way he clutches his biceps and pushes himself against the door is as clear as any indication of how uncomfortable he is by all this. Widowmaker licks her lips and steels herself, cocking her hip to one side and grasping onto her arm even tighter.

“I… think I know what has been plaguing you these past few days, Fantôme, and I should not have used it against you in our match. But if it is any consolation, I think I have been... plagued by the same thing.” Widowmaker blushes as Reaper cocks his head and steps from the door. No turning back now. He silently takes the few steps towards her agonizingly slow, despite the overwhelming need to rush into her arms. With one clawed hand he tilts her chin up and smirks, using his other hand to take her right one.  

“And how do I know you’re not lying to me? Being cruel is one of your specialties after all. And besides, who would ever want to love an ugly thing like me?”  _ He’s taunting me. _ Widowmaker hears the smile in his words, but she sees the desperation and anxiety through his facade.  _ He’s scared of my rejection, yet he acts like he can push me away…  _ Widowmaker squeezes Reaper’s fingers and brings her left hand to the cheek of his mask. She can feel the warmth spreading over her from his touch, and she instinctively bows her head into the hand under her chin.

“I would. I do not know if I do, but I would. You make me feel alive, mon Fantôme. Mon Dieu, you make me feel, period! And I know that we are cruel and horrible people, but maybe we can try to be horrible together? Because NO ONE has ever made me feel the way you do, and I want to- I want...” Widowmaker stumbles in her accidental speech, taking a step back to collect herself. Reaper is left speechless. _She sounded so much like Amelie… And…_ “I think, for now, I just want you.” _She wants me too?_  Widowmaker grabs Reapers left hand with both of her hands and squeezes. Her eyes burn into the eyes of his mask, begging for an answer. “We do not have to be together. We could be, how do you say, “friends with benefits,” but please, Fantôme-” 

 

Within an instant, Reaper’s mask is off, and he’s kissing her deeper than anyone he’s ever kissed before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OHHHHH SHIT BOI ITS GETTIN GOOD

**Author's Note:**

> This is garbage ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ


End file.
